Ramone (page 1)

The first step is always the hardest. Remember the first scenes of some of the epic movies you’ve watched over the years? Quentin Tarantino’s “Reservoir Dogs”… Visualize the entourage sitting at a random diner, all clad in black suits, debating the rationale behind the culture of tipping. Ridley Scott’s “Gladiator”… Maximus primed for battle against the hordes of barbarian savages, the air tinged with the tension of approaching violence. Christopher Nolan’s “Inception”… the headlong tumble into a multilayered dream ushering in the madness that was soon to follow. There is always something about the beginning that draws you in, pushing you past the stages of inertia. The right word, the right picture, the right scene, to depict the moment, the ultimate quest for that brief spark of literary genius to capture the reader or viewer’s attention has always been a stumbling block.

Today was no different; his eyes stared blankly into space, lost in the timeless limbo of a wandering mind, seeking the glimmer of a spark or distant fire to begin his book. The ritual never changed and he never seemed to notice or mind either. He was sprawled in bed, his laptop beside him on the crumpled sheets. The shades were always drawn, but little slices of sunlight still made it through, bathing the room in soft glows. An urban poster of a black man with a trumpet hung askew on the wall above his head. Closer inspection revealed it to be a Justin Bua artwork. There were few similar posters scattered around, some framed, and others still in the tubes they were shipped with.

Recognition slowly crept back into his eyes; as usual his foray into the boundless world of imagination had proved fruitless. He glanced around the room and was struck by the organized chaos and randomness of the décor, not typical of an aspiring writer; it was more or less a futile attempt at style that fell way short. He stared at the cursor blinking on his laptop screen and he realized that he still hadn’t typed any words. It hadn’t always been like this, for some odd reason he couldn’t remember when things changed or the genesis of his mental fugue state. All he could remember was going to bed one night and then waking up to realize that 2 days had passed. To worsen issues, he had gone to bed in a t-shirt but he woke up fully dressed with a raging hangover. The first time was 6 months ago and it scared the daylights out of him, but since then, there had been multiple episodes so he simply resigned himself to the rhythm of chaos.

He grudgingly pushed himself out of bed, and the instance his feet hit the floor, the perfect intro hit him hard…”What happens to a dream deferred…”

Meet Ramone, the writer…


To be continued…